Vegas, Baby!
by MoshPit
Summary: Story On hold, read note
1. Viva Las Vegas!

Vegas, Baby!

MoshPit

__

Kssshhhhhh

That single simple sound sealed his fate. The Greyhound bus roared off, stranding Christian DuBois in the center of the brightest city in the U.S; Los Vegas. He reached into his overnight bag for his camera and began excitingly snapping photos. Dignity be dammed! He was a tourist and by golly, he was going to act like one. He realized to late that he hadn't any film. Or money to buy film. Or a place to stay, even. His whole future looked a bit muddled at this point, but then, his life with Maggie Ann was a bit muddled, too. He couldn't remember exactly _why_ he left, although he did know that the phrase "And don't you come back until you can bring back Muffy!" was uttered.

Curse that dog. He couldn't bring her back, of course. You don't get hit with a car at that speed and just bounce back. He remembered the type of car, too. A mustang convertible painted a blindingly bright cherry red. A car very much like the one coming towards him now…

Within seconds, Christian was on the ground, contemplating the exact moment he stepped into the street. He couldn't recall ever leaving the sidewalk, but he must have. Either that, or the owner of the mustang was a really bad driver.

"Hey kid!" a voice called to him. "You alright?" Christian pushed himself to a sitting position. His knee throbbed, screaming at him to be more careful. It would swell, he was sure of that, but he doubted any thing was broken.

He nodded his head, then turned to look at the driver. He was a thin man, with a finely trimmed beard and long hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, both streaked with gray. Not a single part of him looked out of place, and he seemed completely normal, if you looked past the fact that he shook like a humming bird pumped with caffeine.

"You need any thing?" he asked again. Christian nodded again. "Hop in." 

"I don't think that's-"

"Look, kid, either get in the car or move, 'cause in about ten seconds I'm gonna floor it, and if you aren't out of the way…" he let his voice trail off, leaving the stunned young man to fill in the blank. Christian pushed himself to his feet, snatched up his bag, and hobbled over to the car. He simply couldn't limp his way through Vegas, he figured, and he might even be able to weasel a place to stay out of the man.

No sooner had he slammed the door shut did the car take off. They flew down the streets, and heaved around corner after corner. It was all Christian could do to keep himself inside the car. As they rounded another corner, a cell phone rang, and the speed demon snatched it up quickly without missing a beat. Christian stared at the man in awe and listened to the odd conversation.

"Doc here. Yeah, I know. Uh huh. Uh huh. Zippy? Shut up. First of all; why are you touching my light board? Never touch the light board! I don't mess with your sound system, and you don't touch my lights. Second; breathe, babe. I set the cues during rehearsal yesterday, remember? Third; don't you _dare_ preach to _me_ about how tonight has to be perfect. _I'm_ not the one strutting my stuff for Dukeham. If little Miss Broadway misses her cue, it ain't 'cause of my lighting. Oh, and one other thing- Ask Manuel to have a bucket of ice ready when we get their, and tell Tunces I need to speak with him. Later Zips." 

Doc clipped the phone closed and hurled it into the back seat. "You got a place to stay?" he asked. Christian shook his head. "You can stay with Tunces then. I know he has a spare room." He regarded Christian for a moment, looking the young man over. "You don't talk much, do you?" Christian gave him a weak smile, his mind running a mile a minute.

"Where are we going?" he said finally, voice cracking. Doc grinned, the kind of grin you see on maniac axe murderer's before they plead guilty in court.

"A great little place called _Moulin Rouge_. You'll love it." He flipped on the radio, and Elvis escorted them on their way.

__

Vivaaaaaa Los Vegas! Vivaaaaaaaa Los Vegas! Vivaaaaaaa! Vivaaaaaa!… 


	2. 'Satine'

Vegas, Baby!

MoshPit

'Total silence. Complete control. Breath, Mattie, breath! Find your center, girl. Tonight, the stage belongs to you.' Madeline VeMonte was unknown to the world. To them, she was Satine, the Sparkling Diamond. A precious gem among the dirt that was the showgirls; strippers and whores, the lot of them.

She wasn't that much different from the girls. If the men had bothered to look, they would see that she was just another woman willing to bare her breasts for others. But Harry had told them she was special, and like fools, they believed.

The only difference between Madeline and some of the other girls was that she wanted more. She was a dreamer. Most of the other ladies chided her, calling her snobbish, accusing her of thinking herself better than them. Only Amelia stood up for her. But she couldn't always be there to stop their hurtful words. What was wrong, she often wondered, with wanting to be more than a stripper all her life?

Madeline's eyes scanned her small dressing room. Another reason for the girls to hate her. She was the only one with a private room, the others had to dress in a walled off portion of backstage. They complained constantly to Harry about the lack of space and organization, but he held fast to his decision that Madeline deserved her own room. After all, he would reason, she was the one bringing in the most money, why shouldn't she have her own private dressing room. Way to add wood to the fire, Harry.

Her outfit for the evening's show sat next to her mirror, begging to be worn. Just above it hung the painting Tunces had done, just for her. He had spent weeks on it. Often the girls would find him adding little details to it, taking great pains to get every line, every curve, every letter exactly right. It depicted her perched on the world, microphone in one hand, the other out in a sweeping motion as she belted a tune. The words "Today Broadway, Tomorrow, the World" rounded out the painting, and the piece of art had become her most prized possession.

Madeline glanced at her watch. 6:45 fifteen minutes till curtain. She disrobed at shimmied into her costume. It was a marvelous outfit, designed by Tunces and handmade by Marie. The other girls were terribly envious of it. On any of them, the combination of silver and white sequins fixed to silk would have made them look pale and washed out. But the paleness of the costume harmonized with Mattie's dark chocolate skin beautifully, and the diamond studded mesh cap she wore over her long brown hair made her seem even more ethereal.

A knock on the door, and her uncle Harry bounded into the room. He wasn't her real uncle, but when she had come to him three years earlier, he acted to paternal and loving towards her he might as well have been.

"Are you ready, my little vixen? Are you ready to wow that director?" Ah yes, she thought. Tommy Dukeham. Though young, he was quickly rising in notability in the art of Broadway directing. A little over a month ago, Harry had sent her head shot and a letter to the director, inviting him to come see 'the magic that is Satine, the Sparkling Diamond!' Now he was here, and if he like her performance, he stay to direct his next production in the Moulin Rouge, then whisk her away to New York to perform on a real stage, in front of a real audience, one that looked at her, and listened to her perform. If he didn't like her show tonight, well, there were other ways to convince him…

"Of course I am, my dear," she said, with a voluptuous smile. "Is he around?" Harry grinned at her.

"He's limping about here somewhere. Amelia kicked him in the shin while practicing her routine." Madeline stifled a giggle. It couldn't be polite to laugh at the man coming to take you away to better things.

"Manuel and Tunces wish you good luck," Harry added, and Madeline sighed. It had been common knowledge for weeks that Dukeham was making his way to the Moulin Rouge, and the thought of it had driven the staff crazy. Manuel, their excellent choreographer, had become 'The General', making the girls dance for hours on end until no step lay out of place. Tunces would be seen flitting in and out of rooms with countless buckets of paint and brushes, touching up the set and repainting pieces constantly. Strains of Zip's special remix of Marilyn Monroe's "Diamond's are a Girl's Best Friend" and "Meet Me the Red Room", a song he had composed specifically for Amelia, could be heard constantly when a show wasn't being performed, the bass rhythm pounding the walls.  Add that to Doc's flickering lights and constant complaining from Nancy, a particularly stuck up performer, and you had a zoo.

Five minutes till curtain.  Deep breathes.  Inside her room, she was still Madeline VeMonte.  But once she left, she became Satine.  Someday, maybe, she would drop the façade.  Someday she would leave the room and still be known as Madeline.  But not today.  Today, she was just another dancer, but tomorrow, well, tomorrow, she would have to see… 


	3. Black Diamond

Vegas, Baby!

MoshPit

Christian had been in the Moulin Rouge for a whole five minutes, and he still had not found his head.  Doc had shown the young man to the backstage area and delivered him directly into the arms of an exuberant Argentinean clad in a leotard and armed with a bucket of ice.  He wasn't quite sure what to make of that.  The Argentinean identified himself as Manuel and led Christian to a dressing room full of young women in what seemed to be their underwear.  He had blushed furiously, and tried to make a speedy escape.

"No, no!" Manuel had smiled.  "These are the dancers.  They normally do not have these many clothes on, but it is a special night."  He left Christian with a smile, a wink, and an ice bucket, surrounded by scantily clad women.  This is where we find him now; with a fevered mind, a swollen knee, and a melting bucket of ice.

"It has been an odd day."  One of the dancers near him, a short, slender woman with short red hair and a bright red dress, laughed, smearing her deep crimson lipstick in the process.

"You an' me both, honey, you an' me both."  She had a surprisingly deep voice for one so small, and it had a slight northeastern accent to it.  Christian's lip twitched, hinting at a smile.

"I was hit by a car with a lighting designer in it," he said with a touch of smugness.  The dancer chewed her lip for a moment in thought.

"Yeah, ok, you beat me.  My name's Amelia.  How 'bout you?"  Christian took the woman's outstretched hand with a shy smile.

"It's Christian, but you make one crack about Allah or Buddha and I swear I'll make you call me Matt."

"…Mark Luke John?"  Amelia smiled as the young man threw his hands over his head in defeat.  "I'm just playing with you, sweetie.  Hey," she added, glancing at her watch, "The show's gonna start in say… three minutes.  You gonna watch?"  Christian furrowed his brow.  Could he?  Should he?  Did he dare take the risk of turning into a giant tomato caused by excessive blushing?

"Come _on_!" Amelia pleaded, noting his hesitation.  "It wouldn't be Vegas without a show, and it certainly wouldn't be a trip to the Rouge without seeing the Sparkling Diamond.  And, I'll buy you a drink.  Pwease?"  She stuck out her lower lip as far as it would go, bowed her head, and brought out the big guns; her gigantic, soft brown eyes.  Christian couldn't resist.

"Fine."  He grabbed a cap with the words 'All hail Dukeham Productions!' stitched on it (no need to risk anyone recognizing him, after all) and followed the dancer out the door.

&*&*&*&*&

'One minute left.  You are O. K.  It's just like another rehearsal.  No reason to get flipped.  Just.  Breathe.'  It was so quiet there, behind the curtain, so serene.  The heavy red velvet buffered the sound, keeping the overwhelming roar of the restless audience from engulfing her.  She was Satine now; calm, confident, cool.  Nothing could stop her now.

And yet there she sat, hunched on her tiny stool as provocatively as possible, ticking away the seconds till curtain, resisting every urge to kick off her spangely heels and run away.  But she couldn't, not now, not when she was so close…

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Amelia approach the right wing, the one not crowded with dancers waiting for their cues.  A man hobbled up behind her.  

So that was Dukeham.  It had to have been, he was wearing a D.P. hat.  She had never seen his picture, so she wasn't quite sure what to expect, but she couldn't help being surprised by his appearance.  He was younger that she had expected a well-known producer/director could be.  Bits of dark hair shot out from under his cap.  He had a round face, the remnants of baby fat that had never gone away, she supposed.

Panic overtook her.  Tonight was the real deal, not just another rehearsal.  Dukeham was really here, and her whole future rested on tonight's performance.  She had to get away, leave before he could ever see her.  If she just got up right now, they could fix it within minutes.  Pull Nancy out of the chorus, she knew the words just as well.  Have only nineteen backup dancers.  She just had to stand up…

The gears creaked, and the curtain started to rise.  The audience exploded with applause and cheers.  Now or never, Mattie, now or never…

&*&*&*&*&

Christian had never seen a crowd so appreciative.  This was going to be some show, he could tell.  The curtain came up, the blue-tinted spotlight came on, and an angel landed on earth.

He now understood the audience's enthusiasm.  At the top of a short flight of stairs, perched daintily on a tiny stool, sat the most beautiful woman ever created.  Raven ringlets cascaded over sculpted shoulders.  Deep chocolate colored skin wrapped in white fabric, tinted an eerily majestic blue by the light.  A lull fell over the audience as she started to sing.

_The French are glad to die for love…_

_They delight in fighting duels…_   

Her voice captured him completely.  Her voice seemed as deep as the ocean and as smooth as black silk.  He was in awe.

But I prefer a man who lives And gives expensive…jewels 

And then the stage exploded.  Lights flashing red, orange, and yellow overtook the stage.  Satine kicked back her stool and glided down the steps to a heavy drumbeat.  About twenty other dancers, all clad in gold miniskirts and bikini tops kicked and shimmied their ways onstage.  The brass section of the orchestra blasted Christian's ears, but not so much that he couldn't hear the diamond's voice.

_A kiss on the hand may be quite continental_     

He knew the tune.  Marilyn Monroe: Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend.  He didn't care.  All he saw was her, the beautiful woman.  Amelia noticed his interest.

"You like her, huh?"  Christian blushed again, for the umpteenth time.  
  
"She's quite beautiful."

"I can get her to see you, if ya' want.  Later, after my number."  Christian just grinned.

&*&*&*&*&

It couldn't be.  Not now, not when she was so close to her dreams.

Harry didn't want to believe the papers in his hand, just like he didn't want to believe the letter he had received just two months earlier.  'Dear Mr. Zidler' it had started, 'I use to be a frequent patron at your wonderful club, the _Moulin Rouge_.  I had relations with several of your girls, and believe me, they were quite wonderful.'  It had started innocent enough.  He had started to get an abundance of fan letters, so to speak, from more than happy customers.  And then it all went sour.

'Mr. Zidler, I regret to inform you that I have recently been diagnosed with Acquired Immuno Deficiency Syndrome, and have reason to believe I may have passed it on to one of your girls…' That sentence broken his heart.  He immediately had taken all of his girls to Dr. Fletcher, and made everyone of them give a blood sample.  And now the results were back.  And the irony was, only one of them showed anything.

He didn't want to believe it, but there it was, black on white.  Madeline VeMonte had AIDS.

&*&*&*&*&

_"Diamonds!_" his angel belted out as the orchestra took a rather brassy turn.  Satine melded into the chorus line and joined them in their high kicks.  _"Diamonds!  Square cut or pear shaped these rocks don't loose their shape.  Diamonds," _then as the band started to build up to the final note_, "are a girl's.  Best.  FRIEND!"_  She lingered on the note for a while, even after the final strains of the instruments had died away.  Her strong voice tapered off, and the audience lifted.  Christian felt rather…lifted himself.  He had lost all feeling in his legs, and had forgotten all about his knee, until Manuel kicked him from behind.

"You are preoccupying my dancer," he accused playfully.  He gave Amelia a less than chaste kiss, then the woman scooted onstage as fast as her red stiletto heels could carry her.  The band struck a brassy note.

"Meet you in the red room, lock the doors and dim the lights…" Amelia's voice wasn't as rich as Satine's, but that didn't matter to Christian.  He only whished her number would finish fast so that he could meet an angel.

&*&*&*&*&

She had left the stage now, and was Madeline again, for the moment.  She turned her head from one side to the other, breathing deeply and trying to catch a glimpse of Dukeham.  Instead, she saw Harry, a cheerful smile nearly masking his somber eyes.

"Well, my swarthy maiden," he boomed softly, "are you ready for a little… 'closure' with Dukeham?"  Madeline smiled.

"Just let me catch my breath."  Harry nodded, and turned away.  He couldn't bring himself to look into the eyes of a dead girl just yet.


	4. But...you're wearing his hat...

Vegas, Baby!

MoshPit

A/N:  **singing slightly off-key** Happy birthday to me!  Happy Birthday to me!  Happy birthday dear MoshPit…happy birthday to me!  And happy birthday to all of _you_, too!  I'm the big 1-5 today, and to celebrate… NEW CHAPTERS!  Boy am I good to you guys.  But first, some stuff.

Firstly, hats off to karadarlin for creating such a fun medium!  Without you dear, the monotony would have never been broken.

Secondly, I'm soliciting to you all.  I demand you all go read and review _Waste not a Dream_, by Elisabeth Bethory.  It's dark and disturbing and easily one of the best MR fics out there, yet it has only three reviews, and two of them are mine.  I'm hoping that if more people review, she might finish it **crosses fingers**.

That's the end of that.  Now, enjoy chapter four!

&*&*&*&*&

Christian was seeing red.  Literally.  In all, he supposed, it had been a red day.  Doc's red car, Amelia's red dress and lipstick, and now this red room.  He delved into the recesses of his mind and remembered that red symbolized blood and death.  This couldn't be a good thing.  

"Wait here," Amelia had said.  "She comes back this way after every show."  For some reason, he had expected a dressing room, or at least being able to meet Satine backstage, not this.  This, well, this was a room straight out of a bordello.  He wondered briefly what Amelia expected to happen back here.

He looked to the rich red wall.  A hokey Elvis clock hung there, swiveling his hips to the never-ending tune called time.  It seemed out of place there, seeing as how it was certainly the only American pop-culture influenced item.  The rest of the room practically smelled of southern Asia.  A statue of one of the Hindu gods stood of the head of the bed, draped in silks of red and purple.  The bed itself was a masterpiece.  Around fifteen silk covered pillows scattered over silk sheets, both colored with red, fuscia, and hints of blue.

Christian bent over the pillows, letting his fingers run over the carefully embroidered elephants and bamboo shoots.  He became so engrossed with the simple complexity of the design that he failed to hear the door open and close behind him. 

"I understand you enjoyed the show," a husky voice whispered in his ear.  Just the sound of her voice made him blush furiously.  Without standing, he nodded.  "Anything I could do to make your stay here even more… enjoyable?"  Very slowly, Christian straightened.  He turned, and jumped at her presence.  He hadn't realized how _close_ she had been.  

His eyes flicked to look over her body.  Gone was the flashy yet flattering silver costume.  Now the dark beauty wore a lacy, stark white piece of lingerie, and over that, a mesh white robe.  The red started to creep up his neck.

Satine smiled.  Oh god, what he wouldn't give to look at that smile all day.  He could write poetry about that smile.  "You seem frightened of me," she observed, and moved closer to his body, snaking her arms around his neck.  "I must admit, you look better than I thought you would.  You seem so nervous though.  You sounded so confident and commanding in your letters."

"Let-ters?" her finally managed to choke out.  He cursed himself for having such flushable cheeks.  He was certain his face was a red as the room he stood in.

"Yes," she cooed.  "You don't know how happy we are that you came to see us."

"But I've never written any letters here.  I never even knew this place existed, till this afternoon, that is."  Satine's gentle movements stopped.  She drew away from him, the warmth in her eyes gone.  'Oh dear god,' he thought, 'this is where they kill me, mince my corpse, and serve me in the patrons' soup.'

"You're _not_ Tommy Dukeham?  Who are you then?"

"Me?  I'm just a nobody who liked your show!  Please don't kill me!"  

"But… but you're wearing Dukeham's hat…" Christian ripped the offending article from his head.

"I found it backstage!  Here it is!  I'm sorry!"  And then, from the door…

_Knock.  Knock.  Knock._

"Oh.  Dear.  God."  Hyperventilating, Christian began to sink to the bed.

"Don't you _dare_ sit on that bed!"  Satine commanded, wrenching him up with a force unthinkable for a woman of her stature.  "He'll know someone was here."  She directed him to an oversized statue of Vishnu, shoved him behind it, and instructed him to sit still.  She snatched a couple scarves from a nearby table, and draped them over the statue, concealing him from sight.  And then, the door.

Her future stood ready for her.  Thomas H. Dukeham's lean, yet muscular frame leaned against the frame of the door.  Dirty blonde hair slathered with grease, slicked back as far as it could go, with chrome sunglasses resting just above his piercing blue eyes.  _This_ was a Broadway director?  He looked fit for Hollywood.  To good to be true.  There had to be a catch.

"Nice set."  And there it was.  His voice, though deep and soothing, sounded so wrong coming from a mouth filled with crocked, yellow teeth.  He had British Smoker Mouth.  She resisted the urge to gag.  

"Glad you liked it.  Please…" she stepped aside, and let the young producer in.  He took long, powerful strides, his grace broken only by his slight limp, and made a beeline for a set destination; the bed.  He let himself collapse on the neatly made sheets and pillows.  Satine glided across the floor towards him.

"So," she purred, "how about New York?"

"What about New York?"  The dancer cursed inwardly, but her smile never faltered.  Why did they always want sex?

From his position behind Vishnu, Christian stifled a groan.  He couldn't see much of the goings on, but he could tell by the slime dripping off Dukeham's voice the direction the conversation was turning.  His stomach churned.  The thought of that greasy pig-man touching the dark angel made him sick.  He wondered if vomit would corrode the gold spray used to paint Vishnu.

Dukeham leaned towards Satine.  She lowered her head with a coy grin.  Christian covered his eyes.

_WHAM!_

A thin bald man with wire-frame glasses kicked open the door and blustered into the room.

"Mattie," he said with a stoner's drawl.  "Harry needs to see you, like, now."  Satine sighed with relief, and reached for a robe less revealing.  The man raised an eyebrow towards Dukeham.

"You like the show?"

"Yes."

"You going to do a show here?"  The room went silent.  Satine and the man both fixed their eyes on the young director.  

"Yes," he said slowly.  "I suppose I shall."  The room became breathable again.  The bald man winked at Dukeham.

"Good.  So, anyway, there's a Furlough Somethin'-er-other on the phone in the lobby.  Something about _CATS_ coming back to Broadway?"

Every good fire needs a match, a pile of wood, and a truckload of kerosene.  In this situation, Dukeham was the wood, the call was the match, and that single statement, well…

"If he means to tell me that my show is gonna be bumped so that a couple of faeries in leotards can jump around on stage singing _poetry_…"  Dukeham's  eyes flared as he stormed from the red room.  Satine shot the bald man a fleeting 'thank you' look, and left as well.  The bald man lingered behind.

"Buddha?" he whispered eventually.  "Christian?  You in here?"  The young man in question cautiously peeked his head out from behind Vishnu.  The bald man smirked.  "Kneeling to Vishnu, eh?  Blasphemy."  Christian pushed a purple scarf off his head.  "Naw, you should keep it.  Looks good on you.  Oh, before I forget, Amelia says she's sorry, and Tunces is waiting for you on stage."  

"Thanks, man," Christian said, patting his bald savior on the back.  The man smacked his hand away, and turned to him with a look of fear and astonishment.

"Don't touch me.  Never touch me!"  He left then, grumbling.  "Stupid east-coast pricks, always touching people…"  Christian stood in the room, the word 'confused' written all over his face.

"But… But I'm from Colorado…"   


	5. Tunces

Vegas, Baby!

MoshPit

The lights were on, but no one was home.  It never occurred to Christian how vast a theater could look when empty.  He stood alone, on the stage, in awe of the multitude of seats in the house.  So peaceful and quiet.  It unnerved him.  The paranoid part of his mind tended to take over when things were too quiet.  He started to hear things that weren't there, see things in the shadows.  A creak of a floorboard.  Axe murderer?  Probably.  

He needed something to distract himself with.  A program, a splinter, anything.  He turned his eyes to the set.  Two large cardboard boxes lay off to the side both full of light bulbs.  Someone had started to strike the set.

From the corner of his eye, he saw something peculiar.  A little girl.  Rather, a picture of a little girl, life sized, a painted realistically on a sheet of wood.  A smile graced the girl's

dark face, and in her arms she held a basket full of daisies.  A wicker Sunday hat sat on her head, a pink ribbon tide around in and dangling from the back.  Christian crept closer to it, marveling at the detail put into such a small piece of art.  Even the girl's dress looked to be made of real cotton.  He reached out, daring his fingers to prove his eyes wrong.

"_Don't touch that!_"  Christian jerked his hand back with such a force of surprise that he nearly fell backwards.

" 'Get in the car', 'don't sit on the bed,' 'don't touch that.'  People in Vegas are snitty.  And possessive."  He looked around, trying to pinpoint the voice.  He saw no one.

"We're a snitty race.  Suck it up and deal."  Footsteps echoed off the wooded floors, soon accompanied by the sounds of wheels, all badly in need of some grease.

"I spent three hours on that girl's eye alone," the voice continued.  "The paint hasn't dried yet, and if you mess it up so help me, I will beat.  You.  _Down_."  
  


"That was a hyperbole."

"Overstatement is a sign of character.  That's what I always say, at least."  The voice was right behind him now.  Christian turned, and looked down.  Before him stood a man, a short man.  He wasn't a dwarf, exactly, but he couldn't have been taller than five feet.

"Is this someone you know?" Christian asked, motioning to the little girl.  An uneasy look settled on the man's face.

"Sort of.  I call her 'little Madeline.'"  In an instant, he switched gears.  "You must be Mohammed.  I'm Tunces, come with me."  And that was that.  He turned, and started to leave.  Christian had no choice but to follow.

"Wake up's at five," Tunces said.  "If you're staying with me, you ain't staying for free.  For the remainder of your stay, or until you get your own place, you work for me to pay off your rent.  Clear?"  All Christian could do was nod.   


	6. a little side note

Just a little side note...  
  
  
Okay, I know that only, like, three people really care about where this story is going, and to those  
people I say "I'M SORRY!!!" But you see, I was recently hit in the head with the Steel Baseball Bat  
of Inspiration©, and am rushing off to do other things. I may return, someday. In fact, I will return, but  
it probably will not be until these next two things are finished.   
Don't think for a moment that I don't know what to do with this story. I know exactly where it's  
going. In fact, I could give you a plot outline for the next couple o' chapters, if anyone wants it. I just  
don't have the time or the energy to deal with it now. My characters are being finicky, you know how  
it is.  
There wasn't a whole lotta point to that, I just didn't want to leave those two devoted fans hanging  
while I wasted time on "Inhuman Nature" and the upcoming "The Edge of Reality and Back".  
  
–MoshPit 


End file.
